


Class Of 2013

by Vintageweedkiller



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27950618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vintageweedkiller/pseuds/Vintageweedkiller
Summary: Friday nights are for the adults. And sometimes, the adults have problems they need to work out.
Relationships: Parsley Botch/Dallas Smuth
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1





	Class Of 2013

**Author's Note:**

> Dallas Smuth POV! Parsley and Dallas is my comfort ship stfu..also hi Milo <3

It was a Friday afternoon and the lounge was packed. The children of the Habitat were in their rooms, perhaps conspiring against us, but it didn't matter. Friday afternoons were for the adults. I sat idly in the corner, close to the bathroom as I watched my fellow Habiticians bounce and sway to the juke box opposite of me. I was never one for dancing, personally. I mostly came to the lounge to people-watch and get inspiration for my next painting.  
I looked down at the table, my sketchbook open to a blank page as I tapped my pen against my bottom lip. Nothing yet. I gazed upward, scanning the room. Familiar faces hovered around the room, I saw my good friend Jerafina drunkenly blabbering to Trencil, and watched as Mirphy talked to Kamal. The hum of voices and faint music from the box, along with the warmth of body heat flooding the room almost made me drowsy.  
I sighed softly, a stray hair filtering into my view. I blew it away, but it came back. I leaned back in my chair, setting the pen aside the book and reached backward, pulling my hair into an unruly ponytail, the sheer mass of my untamed hair threatening to snap the elastic that held it at any given moment. When I opened my eyes, a new figure had entered the lounge. He was shorter than me, but not by a lot. His hair was curly and puffy, cut straight to the nape of his neck, and his eyes, although tired and worn out, had a radiant maroon color to them. He was already without his suit jacket, red dress shirt casual, I'd call it, and looked almost lost without his brief case. He was standing beside me, against the wall, staring blankly at the bar. His arms hugged each other close, and I felt an intense tension pulling from his aura.  
"Parsnip," I started, voice low enough to keep the company between us. "You look tense."  
"I'm always tense," Parsley answered, hesitantly. "I don't even know why I'm here."  
"It's a Friday night and that's karaoke? That's why everyone else is here," I noted, eyes drifting over the faces I'd grown somewhat tired of seeing everyday.  
"No, that's not it. I don't know if you pay attention, Saddle— I mean Dallas, but I tend to avoid Fridays," Parsley replied, flatly.  
I scrunched my nose up, my sunglasses rising up on the bridge of my nose as I studied his side profile. He was young, I never bothered to ask his age, but id say mid twenties, but he seemed much older. He had deep bags under his eyes, and a wary sort of look I'd only seen elderly people have before. He looked burnt out and sad.  
"Well, I can't read your mind," I mumbled, turning back to my sketchbook and picking up my pen. I tapped it against the paper in thought.  
"I'm a bit of a lightweight," Parsley stated randomly. I glanced up at him, he was still staring emptily at the bar. "Yeah?" I said back, trying to follow his gaze. "That's not a bad thing, you just have to pace yourself."  
"Thing is," he started, finally peeling his vapid eyes from the bar to me, "is that I don't really have a sense of self control. I don't really know when to stop."  
I stopped, my eyes flickering from his to the space beside him, awkwardly trying to figure out why he'd begun to talk about his alcohol related tendencies. "I guess maybe it is a bad thing then," I said, unsure of what else to reply with.  
"Sometimes I wonder if it makes me less of a man. I watch the other guys drink like it's the end of the world, and yet they never get as drunk as I do."  
I laughed softly, sketching the outline of Parsley's profile. "Maybe they know self control?" I offered, smiling to myself.  
"Does it make me less of a man?" He asked me, his tone shifting to sound panicked.  
I met his gaze again, my eyes narrowing just a bit as I studied his worried expression, confusion claiming mine. "No, why would it?"  
"I don't know," he said, his voice sounding more like a plea of mercy than a general statement.  
Silence fell between us and I felt the air grow thick with tension yet again. I wondered if buying him a drink would at least loosen him up a little, at least I'd be monitoring him. I looked down at my sketch and drew little stars around it, writing Parsnip next to it.  
"I don't drink," I said, finally breaking the taught quiet that lingered.  
"You don't," he replied, his tone flat. "I dont," I echoed. "It's not fun to me. I don't like feeling warm and I have yet to find a drink that actually tastes good and not like… spoiled horse piss. It's a blessing, though," I said, my eyes drifting to Jimothan at the bar. "I'm always the sober one to take my drunk friends home."  
"You are," Parsley said, his tone the same.  
"What I mean," I started, looking up at him, his face creasing into what I can only describe as contempt, "is that if you wanted to drink, I could keep an eye on you and make sure you don't overdo it."  
"You don't have to," he said, turning to me again, his arms anxiously feeling his biceps up. "I should probably go, anyways—"  
"No, man," I said, smiling. "My treat. You're stiffer than a wooden art mannequin right now. Watch my stuff, this one's on me."  
"Dallas," I heard Parsley start, but I was already up and approaching the bar. Jimothan turned to me, wiping down a glass as he eyed Randy, who was drinking straight pickle juice, up.  
"Hello, Dallas."  
"Hey Mr. B. I was wondering if I could get a spiked rootbeer float?"  
"You don't drink, Smuth," Jimothan noted, eyeing me up. He didn't seem to notice his son playing the wallflower not too far behind me.  
"I don't," I nodded, leaning against the bar table. "But my friend does. I wanna do him a solid, get him warmed up before karaoke starts at 6. Can you do me the favor of whipping him up that drink?"  
Jimothan narrowed his eyes, setting the glass down on the surface of the bar and passed his gaze over me once again. I could tell he was analyzing me.  
"This friend… doesn't happen to be Millie or Nat, right?" He asked.  
I laughed, tilting my head back. "No! No, no, never! It's for someone here. He's got a problem coming out of his shell is all."  
Taking my words with the scepticism a man of what I assume is mid 50s would, he pulled out a glass and began making me the drink. I watched with as much interest as I could muster, but the air between us was almost, if not more tense than between me and Jimothan's son. I clenched my jaw and stayed quiet.  
"Did you hit it off with that Mirphy girl?" he asked me, paying more attention to the drink than his question. I suppose he felt the awkwardness too.  
"Nah," I replied, shifting my weight between my legs. "She's not interested in me. I respect that, though. I'm not the kind of dude to overstep boundaries knowingly. Plus I hear she's sapphic."  
"Sapphic? Is that a disease?" Jimothan asked, glancing up.  
Right, he's old.  
"It means she likes women," I explained swallowing hard.  
I watched Jimothan stop and watched his fist clench around the rag as he finished the drink. "Does she," he said. Ready to get the hell out of there, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a 20 dollar bill, slid it across the bar table, and took Parsley's drink in my hand.  
"I think," I said nodding and turning away. "Keep the change."  
I came back to Parsley and set his drink down, apparently visably shaken, as a wave of concern passed over my friend's face.  
"You okay?" he asked softly, sitting down at the table with me. He took the drink and slowly sipped at it.  
"Your dad sucks," I grumbled softly, returning to my sketchbook and tapping the pen against the yellowed paper.  
"Yeah, that's why I was ignoring him," Parsley mumbled, sighing.  
"I'm so sorry, Parsnip," I murmured under my breath, meeting his tired eyes. He seemed less stiff now, more relaxed and at ease. I smiled softly at him, reaching out and placing it on his wrist. He looked up at me and almost looked confused, as though he hadn't been touched with affection in a while. I reassured him with a soft squeeze it was alright.  
"Don't… apologize for him. He doesn't deserve the sympathy," he mumbled, resting his cheek on his hand as he absently sipped at the spiked soda drink.  
I smile and pulled my hand back, chuckling under my breath. "I've never met a father figure who wasn't awful," I replied softly. "Besides Trencil."  
"Besides Trencil," Parsley agreed. "But, no, my dad is so bad. Like. Such a shitty dude."  
"Yeah, I figured after he practically spat at Mirphy for liking women," I said, sketching absently.  
"He did that?" Parsley asked, the soft sipping of the straw pausing and I felt the table stiffen under his hand. "Again?"  
I threaded my eyebrows in confusion. "Again?"  
"Ugh, God!" Parsley groaned, his hand turning into a fist as he squeezed his eyes shut angrily. "He's so homophobic. When I married Martin he flipped shit. He still thinks there's time to 'fix me', but I've told him, I'm gay!"  
I paused, staring at Parsley softly. My heart ached for him. He was married?  
"I'm sorry," I replied. "I…"  
"It's like I don't have a voice around him!" He shouted, eyebrows threaded together in exasperation, his hands trembling as he took the glass and leaned back, gulping a significant amount of the alcoholic beverage down.  
"He doesn't hear a fucking word I say! When Martin—"  
"—Parsnip."  
"What?"  
"You're crying."  
"I'm what?"  
"You're crying."  
Silence blanketed over us. I swore the entire lounge came to a soft hush, absolutely no one spoke, or maybe I just tuned them out. Either way, Parsley was the only thing I was focused on.  
"I'm…" he looked down at his hand, focusing on the tears that dripped down his cheeks and pattered onto the table.  
"... Too sober for this," he whispered, his face contorting into a pained melancholy. He sighed softly and began swallowing his drink down faster, rushing the drunken stupor he'd eventually land himself into.  
"Parsnip, slow down," I warned carefully, reaching for his arm.  
"Don't touch me!" He barked, swatting my hand away and aggressively wiping his tears away, teeth clenched and jaw taught with anger. He let out a miserable sob. "You don't get it, Dallas. You won't ever fucking get it."  
"You don't know that, Parsley!" I argued, my voice still quiet in my throat. I didn't have the heart to shout back at him.  
"It doesn't matter if you do or not, Dallas," Parsley grumbled, finishing his drink and stilling as the alcohol seeped into his system. I practically watched as his cheeks flushed and his shoulders relaxed, but the sadness didn't fade.  
"It doesn't matter. Nothing fucking matters," he whimpered, looking at the glass. "I'm a fucking lawyer. I did what my dad wanted. I became a lawyer. I married a man. I lost him. I'm depressed and I can't ever get a leg up anymore. I'm in the fucking Habitat. Nothing matters when you're at rock fucking bottom."  
I blinked. I couldn't possibly take in what he said. It was heavy. I was worried.  
"It doesn't fucking help that he followed me here. To the Habitat. To keep an eye on me. I came here to relax. To get away from him. I can't fucking get away," Parsley sobbed, breaking down and gripping the glass so hard I was scared it'd break. "I just want a break! I want him to care about me like I'm the fucking son he wanted! I can't catch a breath around him, it's always Parsley do this or Parsley why don't you, and never 'Hi son! I'm so proud of you! You're still here, and that's enough for me!' because it's never fucking enough for him! I'll never be enough for him!"  
He let out an agonized cry, sobbing into his arms, now folded over eachother. I saw Jerafina glance over, but not fully acknowledge it.  
"Parsley," I said, voice soft. "Parsley… he's your father… he loves you…"  
"I've never felt loved by that man once in my entire life," he whimpered. "It hurts. I'm tired. I want to give up. I've got nothing."  
I swallowed softly. "You have me," I said, timid.  
"You?" He asked, looking up, his face tear smeared and sunken in.  
"Me," I replied. "I'm your friend, right?"  
He waited for a moment, taking in what I said, turning the words over in his mind as if it was something he couldn't comprehend.  
"... Yeah," he whispered. "You are."  
"Then you have something. You have me."  
"Martin," Parsley whispered, his eyes brimming with tears. "Martin…"  
I opened my mouth to reply, but decided against it, just reaching forward to hold his hand gently.  
"Sure, Parsnip. Martin."


End file.
